New Job
by samevanssmutfan
Summary: Sam has to audition for his new stripper job. Rated M


New Job

Sam was scared out of his mind as he walked towards the back office. "It's for the family, for the family; they need you, and this, well this is for them_._"The lady at the front had directed him towards the back of the building; it was dark and there was a weird smell, like sweat, hanging in the air. Crumpled trash, papers and food wrappers, was strewn about in the corners of the room, though Sam suspected that all that would be cleaned up before the joint opened at nine that night. Hopefully he'd be looking down at a screaming gang of women, each with tips dangling from their fingers by that point.

The door was in the shadow of two walls, like some kind of sinister Batcave. The lady at the front had told him to knock and wait to be called. He could hear the blood rushing to his head, could feel his heart beating in his throat. When he'd seen the ad, Sam hadn't had any idea what to expect, but whatever strange and blurry visions had been in his head, they hadn't seemed anything like this. "C'mon, did you really expect a strip club to be upstanding and clean?" The truth was that he'd had no clue what to expect, and that was the scariest of all.

Slowly raising his arm, he let his knuckles tap twice against the metal door, the sound reverberating like gunfire in the silent club.

Balancing on the balls of his feet, it was only a few seconds before Sam heard a deep, though distinctively feminine, voice beckoning him to enter. Taking another breath, swallowing deeply, the seventeen year old opened the door and walked inside, arms close at his side.

There was a single naked bulb hanging over the center of the room, illuminating a desk in the middle, a woman seated behind it. Trying not to tremble and failing, Sam walked to the front but didn't say anything.

"Yes?"

"I, I'd like to apply for a job as a dancer," he spluttered, his mouth instantly dry and sticky.

The woman looked to be in her mid-thirties, closer to thirty four than thirty six. She had long dark hair, and black eyes, with very little makeup on her face. In truth, she was rather attractive, in a scary kind of way. "How old are?" Her voice tread the line between hostile and simply demanding.

"Tw-twenty one," he lied, his voice quaking.

"You're lying," the woman behind the desk said. She leaned forward in her seat, giving Sam a better look at her features. She had crow's feet around the corners of her eyes, but no laugh lines at her mouth. "How old are you?"

"I, I'm twenty one," he insisted, trying to stand a little straighter.

The lady just shrugged. "If that's good enough for you, I don't guess it's any of my business." She offhandedly lit a cigarette. "What's your name?"

Sam was so happy that she hadn't made his age an issue that he volunteered his own name; he'd been planning on using an alias. "It's Sam." He bit the inside of his mouth the moment he said it.

"And why do you want to be a dancer, Sam?"

He took a deep breath, just wanting her to give him a job and let him go. "I need the money."

The lady snorted. "You mean you don't just _want_ to take your clothes off for strangers?" she said sarcastically. "Alright, Sam; take your shirt off."

He should have been expecting this, but he wasn't. The lady was running a strip joint, so obviously she'd want to see the goods before hiring him; her business's reputation probably depended on the quality of product, not that he knew much about the skin trade.

"If you want a job," she said lazily, "you're going to have to take your clothes off a little bit faster than that."

It was taking him forever to undo the buttons on his shirt, and her criticism wasn't exactly speeding him up. "Sorry," Sam mumbled as he finally got the last one and slid his shirt off his shoulders, leaving him bare-chested in the little room.

The boss lady gave him an appraising look as she stood up behind and desk and walked over to him. "Hmm," she hummed, mostly to herself. Sam shivered when one long fingernail traced his pecks, skimming a nipple. "Can you dance?"

"I was in a show choir in high school." He didn't tell her that he was still in high school. "We danced for competitions."

She chuckled. "We don't usually do _West Side Story_ here, kid."

That kind of offended him; Sam might be a novice at this kind of thing, but she didn't have to point that out. "I can dance to any music you want to play," he said, bottom lip stuck out defiantly.

Again she chuckled condescendingly. "And it doesn't bother you to take your clothes off?" The woman was circling him and occasionally she'd touch the muscles in his back. Sam just gritted his teeth.

"I can handle it," he said, hoping that was the truth.

"If you're good, people will press money down your shorts; you're okay with that?"

"I want the money, however they want to give it to me is fine." There was a lot of truth to that; his dad's new job wasn't working out as spectacularly as expected, and his mother still hadn't been able to find work. He needed this job.

It was almost like the woman could see something in him; her eyebrow arched. "Alright, you look good, you're cute; you've got the job."

And now Sam Evans was a male stripper; there was a tingling in his stomach. "Uh, what do I need to wear, tonight I mean?"

"Eager, aren't we?" The club owner moved back behind her desk. "You'll get a costume, but you won't be wearing it for long."

"And," he swallowed again. "How, how far do I have to strip?" Sam didn't know what he'd say if she told him something that he definitely didn't want to hear.

"We're an aboveboard establishment here," she shrugged. "You'll have a tight little number that will drive the womenfolk wild," she chuckled, "but you won't have to go any further than that."

Sam nodded, pleased that at least he wouldn't have to take _everything_ off, but then the lady spoke again, her voice almost exploratory.

"Of course, there are more," she paused, as if searching for the right word, "lucrative opportunities, if you're interested."

Sam didn't like the sound of that. "I, I won't have sex with anyone," he said, his voice quaking again. There were just some things that he couldn't do.

"No, no, of course not," she said, shaking her head. "But, some customers might want a little more than just a show, you know, to get to know you better. Are you interested? It's generally a hundred bucks a pop – that's aside from your salary and tips."

A hundred bucks! For that type of money, he had to at least ask – all the things that he could do with a hundred dollars . . . "What would it be?" His lips were dry, so he licked them.

She smiled. "What every young man wants. I can't just send you out there to my customers without knowing what you've got though," she allowed. "That's bad business. Take off your pants." When she saw his hesitation, the lady said, "If you can't take off your jeans for me, you're going to have a hard time tonight when there're a hundred screaming women yelling at you."

Sam knew she was right. His heart racing, he pulled his shoes off and then unbuttoned his jeans, the metallic whisper of the zipper ringing out in the quiet room. When he sat them with his shirt on a chair, Sam was left in just boxer shorts.

The woman walked back over to him. "These women who'll pay extra, a hundred dollars, they'll want to see all of you. Can you handle that?" Her voice was silky, like she was explaining a simple concept to him.

Sam's stomach turned; this was not what he had come here prepared to do; he'd seen films like _The Full Monty, _and those guys had always kept at least some underwear like garments on. But it was a hundred dollars a customer; he needed that money. Clenching his teeth, Sam nodded. "Think of it like the gym locker room, but with older women instead of high school guys," he said in his mind.That wasn't helping a whole lot.

The woman nodded. "Hand jobs are what they'll want," she said bluntly.

Sam's breathing surged to rapid fire pants. Women would want to do _that_ to him? He was seventeen, he'd always wanted one, but in his mind, it was always with someone he cared about, not just a stranger. "But it will feel good_,_"he told himself – it would be a hundred dollars to feel good, a hundred dollars to help his family. "I can, I can handle that."

The owner smirked. "I don't doubt it." She stood directly in front of him. "Like I said, I can't just send you out to my best customers without knowing – pull them down."

He was trembling again, he was about to get naked in front of a strange woman. "What do I have to be afraid of_,_"Sam asked himself, "I work out, and I've seen other guys in the showers; I'm not tiny."It wasn't that easy though, but he just kept picturing the Ben Franklins, or buying Stacy and Stevie new tennis shoes. Sam pushed his underwear down.

Sam jumped in shock when the woman touched him, her fingers running through his pubic hair. "You'll have to shave this," she said nonchalantly, looking at the unkempt blonde curls growing in every direction. "Everybody's smooth here. Get that done before tonight. It'll make you look bigger anyway."

Blushing, Sam couldn't respond; someone besides a doctor was touching his most intimate places – no one had ever done that. He'd registered what it had meant when she'd mentioned handjobs earlier, but now that someone was actually touching him . . .

"It's alright," she said, "just relax; I'm not going to hurt you." The dark haired woman's fingertips drifted down to his flaccid cock, gently pinching the shaft, feeling his girth. "You're decent," she said with an appraising eye. "Not too big, not too small; it fits you well." She pulled at his foreskin, lifting it up and sticking her fingertip inside against his glands.

Sam had been standing in terrified silence before, but yelped at that. "Oh, God . . ."

She smiled. "This is nice; most of the guys are cut, so you'll be a novelty. It'll give the customers more to play with."

He didn't want to, but under her touch he was starting to stiffen, his erection lifting eagerly.

"Well," the woman shrugged in a businesslike manner, "at least it doesn't take you long." She pulled his foreskin back from the head, mumbling something about him not having any diseases, before letting her fingers grasp his scrotum, squeezing gently. "Remember what I said," she muttered, her fingers palpitating, "no hair, down here, too."

Sam gulped. "Oh, okay."

His penis was fully erect now, standing out from his body, curving upwards towards his belly slightly. Sam was mortified. He'd always hated the curve when it got hard, wished it would just go out straight.

"You're not a little boy," the woman smirked. "The customers will like that." She sighed, like she was about to do something unpleasant.

Sam gasped when she took him in her grip.

"The customers are going to want you to make a little noise, to at least _pretend_ like you're enjoying what they're paying a hundred bucks for." She pulled her hand down to the base, then back up to the head, her knuckles grazing him.

"Uuuuhh," he groaned in total, non-forced sincerity; a woman was fondling his penis after all.

"Better." Her other hand cupped his scrotum, almost like she was weighing his balls. "Be ready for a little pain – these are bored housewives, and sometimes they get a little handsy."

Sam's entire body was sweating as she continued to stroke him. Her hand was so soft, but at the same time so firm; it felt nothing like his own. "Uhhh, uhhh." He felt like such an idiot, trembling in front of this woman.

"That's good," the manager said, not letting up, "they'll like that. Thrust your hips a little."

He did, flexed his abs, too. His cock was glistening with precum, and every time she touched the head just a little too roughly he wanted to die from embarrassment and pleasure.

"It's not a sword and you're not trying to stab me, calm it down some," she smirked. The lady pulled at his foreskin, stretching it as far it would go over the head, making a hood almost.

"I, that kinda hurts, when you pull it too far."

"You better get used to it." She did let it retract though.

The tingling was almost unbearable at this point. Sam was breathing, trying to hold it in, but it wouldn't be, he couldn't . . . "I, I think I'm gonna . . ."

"Don't try to hold back; they'll want everything you've got." She was absolutely yanking at his dick now; it'd probably be raw later. His toes were curling as his boy's face clenched up.

"Ohhh, holy fucking . . . _shit!_" It shot out of his slit, white ropes first one, then another, and then another. Sam was breathing like he'd just run a marathon. His chest and cock were both apple red as the semen slowed to a dribble. "Oh, God, oh God." He had to just breathe for a minute.

Recovering slightly, as much as one could when a stranger was holding one's genitals, Sam leaned over, braced his hands on his knees. His voice horse, he said, "Sorry about the cursing, ma'am."

The club manager let out a throaty cackle. "God, you're adorable! You've definitely got the job!" She handed him a paper towel from a roll that Sam now figured was there for exactly this purpose. His stomach was coated in his jizz from when she'd yanked his cock up at the last minute.

There was silence as she went back behind her desk and he pulled his clothes back on. Now that it was over, he was really embarrassed, even more than before.

"Here's your outfit for tonight," she said, tossing him a blue speedo.

Sam caught it and looked at the little thing; it looked like it'd be tight on his ten year old brother. "Uh, it looks a little small . . ."

She chuckled. "That's the idea." With a wave of her hand she sent him away, "be here at nine," was the last Sam heard before the door shut behind him.

His legs still tingling, Sam left the building to go find an electric razor to do as she'd asked; that was the day he became a stripper.

The End.

_Author note: Well, this is my second Sam smut story and I still want to write more! Lol If you have a prompt that you'd like to see made into a story, please, by all means, send it to me in a review! I'm not saying that I'll do it, but like I said, send it on and if I think I can do it justice, it might become a story!_


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